


i built my life around the love that i've found

by hypotheticalfanfic



Category: Leverage
Genre: E for safety, Established Relationship, Light BDSM, Multi, OT3, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Eliot Spencer, Retirement, Self-Esteem Issues, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 22:54:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30146829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypotheticalfanfic/pseuds/hypotheticalfanfic
Summary: “You’re here,” Parker says, the softest version of her voice, the one only they and certain little kids get to hear. “You’re home. We’ve got you. You’re with us.”Alec pulls Eliot closer to him, something between a clutch and a hug, and just holds. It’s a long, long night, and in the morning Eliot won’t make eye contact and is pissed about nothing (not pissed, embarrassed, not that Eliot would ever admit that), but he’s there and alive.
Relationships: Alec Hardison/Parker/Eliot Spencer
Comments: 1
Kudos: 60





	i built my life around the love that i've found

It would have been easier, he thinks, if he had not believed. Not been a believer. Not been the type of person built and shaped for devotion, for loyalty - he’s the marrying kind, all right, down to his bones, and it’s never gotten him anything but long-term pain and eternal damnation. If he had held some secret doubt, if he had punched in and out and closed it up in a little box and not had it be bone and marrow and every inch of his soul, like some of them did. That would have been easier, later. If he could have known about himself that he had not really believed, he could have forgiven some of it. 

Instead, he knows about himself many things, and chief among them is that he is a man who, with open eyes and a smile, gave himself over to pain and harm and cruelty and evil, and whoever he became after that is still built on that foundation. He is, at root, a person who used what he could do to hurt people - protect people, maybe, sometimes, but really and truly to hurt people. If he’s shifted that balance a hair the last few years, doesn’t change the originating point. Can’t get to the Point B at which he resides now without starting at that Point A.

The checkout person at the farmers’ market is new, not Nazaret, and they shy away from him hard when he gets his change. It’s fine. He knows it’s fine. But the Market wasn’t a place he liked to be reminded of that part of himself. It’s unpleasant. He’s not dumb, he knows that there is something bone-deep and terrifying about him. It takes people a minute, sometimes, to put their finger on it, on the precise reasons why he is so very deeply unsettling. They land more often than not on the body language, the way he sometimes cocks his head just so, like a bird or a predator. The way his shoulders set into a fighting stance when he’s sipping a drink at the bar. The stillness - that’s usually it, he knows. Training and meditation and more training and some good old-fashioned repressed trauma left him a lot of legacies, but the ability to be completely still is one of the most obvious. People aren’t completely still, not like that. People fidget, breathe visibly, blink. He just…stops. 

The two of them haven’t ever seemed upset by it. If anything, they found it amusing (attractive, maybe, though he won’t let himself think that for a damned second, not even now). Should have known then. There is a story there, he knows, if he ever asked. About Parker’s attention span and Alec’s twitchiness, about one and one and one making one. He hasn’t asked. Won’t. Doesn’t want to. This is a thing that would disintegrate if he looked at it too closely, he can feel it in his gut. They tell him he’s wrong, he’s theirs, he’s safe. He’s heard that before and believed it, and he doesn’t do that anymore. Iron skin and a razor smile and he’ll keep his own counsel, watch his own back.

That’s the before.

The after is something different.

* * *

“‘At the end of the day, I am alone with the things that I‘ve done’. You ever heard that? Good shit, huh?” Eliot’s eyes are swimmy, half-glazed, and they have never seen him like this. Eliot doesn’t drink to excess. Eliot doesn’t smoke or take drugs. Eliot eats healthy and local and organic, has a workout regimen that any four pro athletes would envy, and routinely lectures them on things like B-12 deficiency. Eliot is, in this one way, the healthiest of all of them. But tonight, tonight he is drunk and drunk and drunk.

They’d come home from a movie, something Eliot had point-blank refused to see, and found the front door only locked once, the equivalent of standing open. Parker’s gun and Alec’s phone, they’d cleared the front rooms fast. Found Eliot, in the tub, no water. No liquor bottles, either, which means he got drunk somewhere else and then came home, and the strings of that story are heartbreaking enough without him seeming small for the first time in years.

“No, you’re not. Not alone, man.” Alec takes the shorter man’s weight on one arm, stumbles. “Babe?”

Parker helps. Together they carry Eliot through the bedroom door, let it swing shut behind them. He leans into one, then the other, and if Parker’s subtly checking for broken bones as she holds him he’s not even sober enough to notice. Alec maneuvers him down, or tries to, anyway.

“Another one, another one, hang on, it’s, this poet, he wrote a thing, hang on,” Eliot’s head sways back and forth. “Uh, ‘how do you make a monster?’ You take the things, the, uh, the things you hate about yourself, you take them and you pet them across the room. No, not pet. Put. You put them across the room. Right?” He’s not sitting on the bed with Alec, he’s sort of half leaning on it, Parker crouching to his other side. Like if he lays down he’ll have to tell them something, or do something, or feel something.

“Eliot, what happened?” Parker runs one strong hand through his hair, works through tangles.

He butts into her hand for all the world like a cat mad it’s not getting enough scratches, and Alec’s heart leaps into his throat. “Dream.” Cracked, broken, he whispers it, and Alec’s seen Eliot be brave in a hundred ways but this is one of the most painful to watch. “Bad dream.”

“I’m sorry, Eliot,” Alec says. Slips closer, pulls the hitter up and into his lap, one smooth lift. When Eliot’s sober, he hates this, or at least makes noises like he hates it, but when he’s hurt, really hurt, he needs touch even when he - cat metaphor again - is backing away from it like water. Even now, with whatever horror is hanging around him, Eliot’s instinct is to flinch away, to get clear. Alec doesn’t let him, holds him still, lets Eliot beat the bars for a minute until he finally breathes easier. If, of course, Eliot actually wanted away, Alec would be flat on his back and Eliot’d be across the room, so the resistance is more for Eliot than for the other two. Eliot’s shoulders drop just an inch, at last. “There you are,” Alec whispers into his hair, “right there. There’s my man.” Eliot’s head turns, seeking - Alec nearly pulls away, not wanting more than Eliot can really give right now, but it’s not that. Just a soft press of lips, not even moving, just reassurance that they’re both there, present and real and alive. Parker’s long, sure hands work through Eliot’s hair, tangle-free now, and his mouth clings to Alec’s, and he is surrounded, undeniably, by touch.

“You’re here,” Parker says, the softest version of her voice, the one only they and certain little kids get to hear. “You’re home. We’ve got you. You’re with us.”

Alec pulls Eliot closer to him, something between a clutch and a hug, and just holds. It’s a long, long night, and in the morning Eliot won’t make eye contact and is pissed about nothing (not pissed, embarrassed, not that Eliot would ever admit that), but he’s there and alive. And if Alec looks a little closer, he can see maybe a one-fifth reduction in the tension Eliot always holds in his shoulders. Maybe.

* * *

_Dear Mr. Spencer,_

_I hope that this letter finds you in good health, and in a proper state to consider seriously my offer…_

_Dear Mr. Spencer,_

_After having not heard from you in response to my earlier missive, I find myself compelled to remind you of your obligations…_

_Dear Mr. Spencer,_

_Another reminder is here enclosed; I apologize for the mess, but the fifth metatarsal can be on occasion surprisingly fragile…_

Eliot hands them a packet of letters. “They’re all from a guy, it’s not important. The point is I have to go away for a while, take care of this. I’ll be back, I mean, I’ll try to be back next week. Maybe two, tops. Y’all can keep the brewpub up and running until then, right?”

“Is this a toe?” Parker examines the shredded flesh with only half as much horror as a regular person might expect. “Like, a whole toe, the long bones too? Weird.”

Alec gives her the faintest of frowns. “Babe.”

“Oh, right,” she nods. “Alec, tell him.”

Alec rounds on Eliot, towers over him in his best pose. “You’re not going alone. I shouldn’t even - we shouldn’t have to tell you that at this point. The hell, man?” 

“It’s not your fight, the two of you. It’s an old thing, from back in the day, and it’s going to get messy, and I just,” he breaks off, looks down and away. “I couldn’t,” his voice is softer now, “handle it. Y’all. Hurt. Wouldn’t be able to, I mean.”

Parker snorts. 

“Babe.” Alec’s tone is somewhere between amused and reproving.

“I just mean, Eliot.” She takes the hitter’s huge hands in hers. “Eliot, look at me.” He does. “Don’t be an idiot. We’re coming.”

“But I—“

She presses a finger to his lips. “Nope. We’re coming. And if you want us to stay, I mean, I get it, because you love us, but we love you—“

“But—“

A frown, and Eliot’s mouth snaps shut. “We love you. We’re not leaving you. And you’re not leaving us. So that’s settled.”

Eliot glances over at Alec, questioning. The taller man shrugs. “Your whole mean scary ‘do-it-myself’ bullshit is a little stale, man.” 

Despite himself, Eliot can’t not laugh. “Y’all are insane.”

“So?” Parker’s smile is a knife gleaming in the darkness.

“Fair enough.” Eliot pulls Parker to him, kisses her soundly. Alec leans back to watch, slipping one hand in Eliot’s back pocket, the other to the small of Parker’s back. It’s a gorgeous view, even better than that mountain they made him walk up last summer, and he could watch this all day. Not that he complains when Eliot and Parker separate and grin at him - a half-healed cut burst, Eliot’s got a little blood on his lip, and Parker’s got some, too, and Alec’s belly drops out with want.

It’s a little time before they’re clothed again, Eliot by the stove slicing avocados and tomatoes, Parker doing some kind of hand stretching exercises at the table, Alec on the floor, his head leaned back onto her knee, just breathing.

“This all started,” Eliot explains as though the previous interruption hadn’t happened, “when I was young and stupid, drunk off the Army and itchin’ to do some damage. I got hauled into Special Ops, and the program shit out a, uh, I guess you’d call me a wetwork specialist.”

“Retrieval specialist,” Parker corrects. 

“Not yet I wasn’t,” Eliot grumbles. “Not then. Then I was just your basic hired gun. Do the job, protect the asset, get the shot, on to the next one. No reason to fuss about it.”

“They turned you into—” Alec begins to say.

Eliot holds up one hand. “No.” 

“You—“

“No, Hardison. They took what was already there, buried underneath, and they brought it into the light.” Eliot sets his knife down carefully, strides and kneels. He’s a little taller on his knees than Alec is on his ass, and he leans in, presses his forehead to the hacker’s for just a moment. Breathes. Pulls away, puts his hands on Alec’s shoulders. “They didn’t make me like this. I already was. They just, I guess, made it sharper. Easier.” He rubs his thumb back and forth, feeling the soft thermal of Alec’s shirt and the strength it covers up. “Never got my head right, after, but it wasn’t like that. Nobody made me anything I didn’t already have the capacity to be. Can’t make someone into something they’re not already, at least a little bit.” Alec lets one hand drift to the hitter’s elbow, just to hold it. “Did a bunch of missions in the course of a couple years with this guy, anyway, is what I’m getting at.”

Alec’s brow furrows. “What’d you do?”

“I just told you, I did—“

“No, I mean, what’d you do between missions? To get back to normal? I’m betting you didn’t garden, or cook, or draw, or play guitar. None of the stuff you do now.”

“Maybe he had sex,” Parker interjects. “Like we do now.”

“I didn’t, I mean, sex sometimes, maybe,” Eliot flushes just the barest hint of pink. “Mostly I just worked out. Fought, you know, kept in shape. Drank too much for a while.” Stands, shakes out his shoulders, cracks a knuckle. “The point is, so me and this British guy, real piece of work, we’re on a run and he gets it in his head that we’re buddies, you know? That we’re the same, have the same interests.” Back to slicing, perfectly even segments, way more than they need for whatever he’s going to make. One after another, falling beautifully and easily. “And then when I quit, he stayed in, and every once in a while he’d try and get me to, I don’t know.”

“To play with him.” Parker offers. 

Eliot nods. “Somethin’ like that, yeah.”

“So the toe is, what, like a present? A bribe?” Alec screws up his face. “Nasty.”

One shoulder shrugs. “It’s what he does.”

Parker nods. “Like a cat, but a mean one.”

“Sure, Parker.”

Her eyes brighten. “Ooh! Or like a—“

“I don’t think more similes are gonna help me explain this, Parker.” Eliot turns, knife down, and makes an exaggerated version of his angry face so she knows he’s joking. She crooks one finger and he bends to her; she slips a hand up his shirt and he cups her jaw with both of his, and Alec can see their mouths working from where he is. A good place, and he feels the energy expand to take him in, too; they’ll get through this, together, regardless. Some weirdo can want Eliot for himself, doesn’t mean it’s in the realm of possibility.

A flare in Alec’s chest, and he carefully stands, pulls Eliot from Parker’s mouth. She cackles, puts her feet up to watch as Alec presses the hitter to the wall, uses his height to hold him there, braces one arm at eye level. If Eliot wanted, of course, he could get out in about a second, but Eliot, as he always does, melts up into Alec. “You’re not his,” Alec can’t stop a growl, and Eliot’s pupils blow black; Alec can see his throat move as Eliot’s heart starts to race, can see him tip his chin up just enough to signal. Alec sets his mouth to work there, over the thumping vein, teeth and lips and tongue, and pulls at Eliot’s belt with his free hand. He can feel Eliot making low, hungry noises, and he can hear Parker scoot her chair to a better viewing angle, can hear her sigh, can hear her breath pick up into a staccato rhythm. He knows exactly what she’s doing, and when he grins into Eliot’s neck, bites just enough to leave a mark, he can nearly feel Eliot realize it, too. Now the hitter’s got somewhere to look, time to get to work.

This, this he can do, this is like hacking a server with eight-year-old firewalls, this is easy. This requires nothing from him but joy, and he sets to his task with a vengeance. “Not his,” he growls into Eliot’s neck, “not his,” twists one big hand in the hitter’s hair, “not his,” breathes into his chest and ribs and belly and further, further, more and more. He can hear Eliot’s head hit the wall when he finally swallows him down, and Parker’s moan, and his own heartbeat. One hand feather-light against the back of his head, Eliot’s other hand scrabbling against the wall for purchase as Alec takes him to shreds: this is good. This is right. This is where Eliot belongs, not with some freak show who thinks Eliot would appreciate a goddamn toe in the mail.

Parker cries out, a long, delicious call, and Eliot trips over to come at the sound, and Alec could die happy if not for the need to have this every day for much, much longer. He gentles Eliot through an aftershock or three, and rests his forehead on the hitter’s trembling thigh. Eliot’s shaky hands pull him up, up, into a searing kiss, and Parker’s mouth lands on the back of the hacker’s neck, and while he didn’t intend to be the one surrounded - that was what he wanted Eliot to have - he can’t deny how good it feels.

* * *

“For a ghost, this guy’s persec is garbage,” Alec mutters. Parker nods, her mouth full of noodles, motions with her chopsticks for emphasis. The guy took all of a day and a half to pinpointto a four-block radius in Connecticut. Mistake. Then they narrowed further to an old, nice hotel that pays like shit, the absolute easiest kind of target, and it hadn’t taken more than an hour to get eyes where they wanted them.

“Trap.” Eliot’s wrapping his hands; he’s antsy today, and while normally he wouldn’t bother just for a regular workout, he wants his hands fresh for whatever needs doing. “Trap, right?” The wrap shakes just a little, window’s glare bouncing on it, and Alec reaches out one hand to grasp the hitter’s wrist. Just holds it for a moment, feels the thump of his pulse, waits for it to slow back down a little before he gets back to typing.

Parker gulps down the last of her food. “Oh, a hundred percent. Alec’s getting me security feeds, we’ll map it out. We got you, Eliot.”

Eliot’s eyes flick between the two of them, Alec’s hand on his wrist, the door. Then he leans down, presses a kiss to the back of Alec’s hand; Alec lets go, smiles, dives back in. Eliot finishes wrapping, then goes and boxes for an hour. By the time he gets out of the shower, Parker’s got the plan, and with Alec finishing up his part as best he can (it’s tough when they’re so beautiful), Eliot bends to her will for another several hours until he’s raw, sore, needs another shower. Fucked-out and quiet, they get one more night’s sleep before whatever happens in the morning, and Eliot doesn’t dream at all.

In the morning, things go very, very easily, and then very, very wrong, as is the standard, and it comes down to the size of a room.

“Mister Spencer!” The man looks delighted, genuinely, and Parker hits him with the taser before he can say anything else. He jerks, shudders, but he’s stronger than she’d thought, recovers as fast as Eliot does from a shock. Eliot’s too far away, wrapping up with three bodyguards, and when he sees, he roars. Too late, though, the man’s back up and he wheels around, double kick to Parker’s head, and Eliot can’t get to her to catch her. But he’s there when the man turns around.

“Aw, honey bunches, you made a real bad choice today.” Eliot’s smile is red and it hurts, it hurts, and he finds the small still stone in the center of him, and moves. Alec, in his ear, reassuring; _Parker’s vitals are fine, she’s coming up, get him, baby, you get him, you’re not his, fuck him up_. Eliot is, for his sins, very good at following orders, and when the man is still, quiet, breathing but unlikely to move for a good long while, he turns to Parker.

“It looks worse than it is,” she holds up one hand to halt him in his tracks. Blood pouring from her nose, from her cheekbone, from her eyebrow. “Zipties first.” She watches Eliot’s mouth open and close a few times, watches him want to do three or five different things at once, and only lets herself relax when she sees him breathe in, in, out, out, and turn to restrain the man. In her ear, Alec, _babe, sitrep, you good?_ She gives a thumb up to a camera in the ceiling, and tilts forward, watches the blood drip onto the carpet. “Eliot? Sitrep.”

She can see from the way his back and shoulders are set that he’s angry, but when he turns around, his whole face is set in stone. “Fine. Guy’s out. Call the cops, Alec.” He looks her in the eye, and — there. A flicker; he’s going to deal with this later, at his own speed. She nods.

“Got a cold compress in the van, babe?” She says to Alec as Eliot half-carries her. “I think he broke it.”

_Yeah, he got you solid. Eliot, you do a concussion protocol?_

“Not yet,” he growls, kicks one last mook down some stairs. This close, Parker can hear his breathing, and it’s just wrong enough that she stops walking. He turns to her, frowning, hair wild and blood on his teeth. “What?”

“Broken ribs, I think, Alec.” She’s right, she can tell by the way he frowns further.

“Whatever. No time for that, let’s go, Parker.” Together they get out, get to the van, and Alec manages not even to throw up while Parker’s nose finally, slowly starts to dry up. He starts concussion checking, not even seeming to notice that Eliot’s slipped into the driver’s seat and started them off. It is, in fact, not until Eliot slides open the van door in front of their place that Alec realizes.

“The hell, man? You’ve got broken ribs, you can’t be driving us!” Eliot laughs, high and pained, and watches their backs as Alec hustles Parker in.

“No concussion,” Parker reports, chipper now that she’s stopped bleeding. “And it might not even be broken!”

“Score,” Eliot says, carefully sitting down on their wooden coffee table. He just breathes for a moment, eyes closed, and Parker and Alec take the chance to look him over. Parker works his shirt loose, starts to try and ease it over his head, but Eliot snorts. “Alec.”

The hacker nods, half a laugh, and slips one of Eliot’s knives out of his boot, slices carefully up the back of the shirt. “Easier, I will admit,” Alec says, trying not to see how much blood’s on the rag. “Undershirt now, Eliot, don’t move.” The blood on this one has dried stiff and terrible, and it takes some sawing. Alec can almost hear Eliot grinding his teeth, more from the way Alec uses a knife and less from any extra discomfort.

Parker, meanwhile, grabbed their first aid kits and is setting out needed supplies in a pattern only she can understand. “Hey, Eliot? Is he why you stopped using guns?” She’s disinfecting things they don’t even need - thermometer, tweezer, hand mirror - just to have something to do, and Alec loves her so much it hurts.

Eliot makes eye contact with her. “So damn beautiful,” he says, like he was thinking it, like he didn’t realize it came out loud. He does this, sometimes, when he’s been working hard and he’s not quite back with them yet. He thinks things and forgets not to say them; doesn’t mean he doesn’t mean them, just that he doesn’t intend to speak. They’re used to it by now. He coughs - no blood, thank all the gods of every faith. Just a cough. “Nah.” He sits forward, catches his breath the way he does when something is excruciating.

Alec checks Eliot over, slowly, carefully. Probably a broken rib or two, plus he got stuck at least once by the big Ukrainian guy they’d recognized. The hacker runs a hand carefully down his spine, along his other ribs, just checking; Eliot doesn’t react, but he does it a few more times for his own peace of mind anyway. “How’s your breathing?”

Eliot turns, meets Alec’s eye. “It’s fine. Not poking me anywhere.”

“Cool,” Alec mumbles, continues checking each rib carefully. “Tell me, please, if—“

“Obviously,” Eliot says, sounding more annoyed than concerned. Eliot looks back at Parker. “Him, and guns, not just him, anyway. It’s more that guns make everything simpler than it should be. It should mean something, when you hurt someone. It should hurt you, too. Otherwise you forget they’re people on the other end of it.” He holds up one hand, bloodied and scarred, two fingers still bent a little wrong. “They should leave a mark, or have the chance to, anyway. You keep hands off everyone you hurt on your way through, you end up thinking you never hurt anybody.”

Alec kisses the back of his neck. Just a kiss, like they’ve done a hundred thousand times and will do, if the universe has any pretensions toward morality, a hundred thousand more. “Let me wrap those ribs, huh? Get you a sling?” He even manages not to sound afraid, or at least not as afraid as he has been since hearing Eliot breathe wrong, since Parker went down, since he’d been sitting in his control room a block away and useless while the people he loved most in the world were—

“Yeah,” Eliot sighs, drops his head a little. “Yeah, okay.”

“Then,” Parker slides one hand into his, strong sure fingers careful around his breaks, “we’ll get some sleep. Okay?”

He nods once, twice, lets his head tilt sideways over to rest on hers. “Please.”

* * *

Sunset, six weeks later, Eliot breathing as easily as he ever has. Burgers and potatoes and corn on the rooftop, wine and champagne and pink lemonade. They tear Eliot apart, in the way he likes best, out there in the open air while the moon comes up: Parker sitting on his face, Alec buried in him, egging her on, and if maybe they all end up a little teary, snuggled under the huge blanket Eliot keeps up here for reasons just like this one, well. Who’s going to tattle?

“I think I wanna quit,” he whispers. Clears his throat, continues a little louder. “Go straight, I mean.” Runs one hand through his hair, doesn’t make eye contact. “I know y’all don’t, aren’t, can’t do that. Not yet, probably not ever. I just wanted to tell you. Both of you. I—“

Parker interrupts. “You mean you don’t want to be a thief anymore?”

“Yeah, Parker.”

“Oh, well that’s no problem, then. You’re not a thief anymore.” She smiles as if all his problems are solved.

Alec’s face is thoughtful. “You know, man, she’s right. When’s the last time you stole something for fun, or to make some cash? Not to help somebody?”

“Last piece of pizza doesn’t count,” Parker interjected. 

Eliot opens his mouth to snarl, stops. Thinks. “Shit, I don’t…maybe a couple years ago, that thing in Beirut?”

“Yeah, no, what’d you do with the car after the job?” Alec hides a grin in Parker’s shoulder.

“I, uh,” a sheepish smile, “I got it detailed and I gave it back.” 

“So you’re not a thief. You run a brewpub and you garden and you take care of us and you go with us when we go be thieves, but you’re not.” Parker smiles again. “You went straight two years ago at least.”

Alec laughs. “Welcome to retirement? I guess?”

Eliot just blinks for a minute. “Huh.” Blinks some more. “Well, hell.” They can see his eyebrows relax, his cheeks pink. “Look at that.” He starts to laugh, quiet at first then loud and echoing, and they watch for a minute before it gets contagious, huddled laughing under a blanket.

The moon overhead is round and full of possibility, and tomorrow they’ll all complain about being sore and Eliot’s exhibitionist shit, and things will just carry on. There’s houses all booked and ready, cabins in deep woods and on high mountains, cozy apartments and sprawling ranches and tiny beachside cottages. There’s a converted fallout shelter and an earthship and a whole apartment building, and acres of land waiting for something to get built, and they’ve all been built for three for a long, long time.

**Author's Note:**

> \- "at the end of the day" is from [A Softer World #227](https://asofterworld.com/index.php?id=227).  
> \- "how do you make a monster" is a misquote of [Richard Siken's "Editor's Pages" from the Winter '01 issue of Spork](https://sporkpress.com/1_3/pieces/Editor.htm)  
> \- title from "Bright Idea" by Mother Mother (how I haven't used it before I don't know, like, look at it)
> 
> > Love is a bright idea  
> > Love is a brilliant plan  
> > I built my life around a bright idea  
> > I built my life around the love that I've found


End file.
